


A Little Piece of Bliss

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Control, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Fucked Up, Gun Kink, Loss of Control, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, No Smut, Non-Consensual Touching, Obedience, Oral Fixation, Orders, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 08:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: Wash is trapped in the darkness, losing himself as it tries to drown him. Locus has the solution, and a mission. And a high cost.PLEASE MAKE SURE TO READ THE WARNINGS!!!





	A Little Piece of Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [pippen2112](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/profile) for Beta-ing this fic!
> 
> While this fic doesn't contain actual sex, it does contain very sexual overtones and is generally pretty messed up. i'd rather over-warn than under warn!

“Did you give it to him?”

“Of course,” Locus replies. “I don’t forget details.”

Felix laughs, his voice crackly over the radio. “Oh, this is gonna be sweet. I can’t wait to hear all about it. And see the results.”

Locus stifles a growl at the flippant comment. “This isn’t a joke, Felix. Control wants us to test this technology and report back.”

He can easily imagine Felix’s expression, the flippant hand gestures. He can’t control that even during the worst situations. “He didn’t say we couldn’t have fun. And if I’m stuck here babysitting this group of idiots, I deserve some entertainment.”

The words have bite to them, beyond joking and jovial. It’s been a while since Locus has heard Felix get this worked up. Or this enthusiastic.

“You’ll hear the report.”

Locus cuts off the line.

—————

Wash sits down on the bunk he’s been assigned and finally, reluctantly, pulls off his helmet. He holds it in his hands, clutching it like a protective talisman. He’s barely taken it off in the couple of days since Locus and the Feds had returned it. Hadn’t even taken it off to sleep, not that he’s been sleeping much recently.

He thinks giving them single rooms instead of shoving them into barracks is Doyle’s way of apologising for their treatment. It doesn’t make up for it, and doesn’t make Wash feel better, but Wash knows he won’t feel better until he’s found Tucker and Caboose and the Reds and preferably are off this planet. He’s got no desire to throw himself into someone else’s war.

He sets down his helmet and rubs at the back of his neck, scratching at an itch around his neural implant, before he starts to methodically strip off the rest of his armour. Gauntlets and greaves, shedding it pieces by piece until there’s just the undersuit left. He contemplates taking that off, but a glance at the locked door persuades him otherwise. Doyle seems genuine, but he doesn’t trust anyone here enough to be completely defenceless.

He lies down on the bed and waits for sleep to come. It’s been pricking at his eyes and temples all day, but that’s never meant shit. The pillow is thin, worse even than the standard issue one back at the base they’d been at before Carolina had returned. He rolls over onto his stomach, scratches another itch at the back of his head. It’s to be expected he supposes. He’d taken quite a blow and the doctor had said he’d needed surgery. He’s surprised it’s only itching.

It takes a while, but sleep eventually curls around his brain, dragging him down. 

He wakes with a sharp gasp of breath, hair plastered against his sweaty forehead. He throws the cover off himself, feeling far too warm despite the undersuit which should help regulate temperature. Sweaty, sticky, breath coming in short, sharp little pants as his heart races.

What had— no. Where— He looks around the room, sees nothing. Dark. Only the glow from beneath the door allowing in any light. What had he been dreaming of? Anything? Nothing? Nightmares are nothing new to him, but they’re mostly familiar by now, almost comforting in their predictability. This wasn’t like that.

He remembers fits and starts of it, hazy and indistinct. Dark water around him, and cold. He remembers he’d felt cold in the dream.

He swings his feet over the side of the bed, and then rubs his hands along his arms, a weird, shivery feeling running through him, right down his spine, through every inch of his nerves. An unsettled churning in his stomach. Heat pulses through him, and that just makes the shivery sensation worse. Is he getting sick?

He reaches up to rub at the implant again, fingers running over the scar tissue there, the cool metal. Infection? He should— he should go see the doctor. He feels so… hollow suddenly. Like something’s missing, like he’s been emptied out and there’s nothing left. Like the world might dissolve if he looks at it too hard.

He pushes himself slowly to his feet, and sways for a moment, vision swimming. He blinks, and the air in front of him seems to ripple and then—

A dark figure materialises in front of him.

Instincts scream at him to attack, to fight. All he manages is an uncoordinated half--step backwards.

“Locus.” The name is heavy on his tongue. Why is he here? His brain feels like it’s moving at half speed, sluggish like— “You— I’ve been drugged.”

But he hasn’t eaten in hours. Why would it only kick in now?

“Sit down, Agent Washington.”

The voice confirms it, if the distinctive helmet hadn’t done that already. Should have known Doyle couldn’t hold the leash of some merc like this. What’s he doing? What’s he got planned?

“What are you—“

“I said, sit down.”

Wash wants to shove past him, get to the door, into the hallway, find Sarge, find Donut, find anyone. Instead, he finds himself taking a step back, legs bending beneath him to drag him back down onto the bed. “Wh—“

“How are you feeling?”

“That’s none of your business,” Wash spits. He tries to push himself back to his feet, but a wave of nausea overwhelms him. He doubles over, thinking he might throw up, but the moment passes. He straightens back up, fingers tightening against the mattress, rucking up the sheet.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.” It isn’t a question this time. He can hear a note of irritation in Locus’ voice, and that makes him feel bad, a rush of guilt, shame and— what? Where did that come from? He’s getting sick. He must be getting sick. Brain damage fucks you up.

He’s speaking before he can even think about it, words spilling out of him. “I think I’m getting ill. A fever. I feel too hot, but shivery. Disoriented. Unsettled.” It doesn’t do justice to how strange he feels. The worst childhood illness hadn’t left him feeling like the world was dropping out from beneath him. “I feel— hollow. I feel hollow.”

Locus regards him from behind the anonymous globe of his helmet. “You feel hollow.”

Wash shudders, feels that empty feeling, the feeling of intense wrongness, grow. “Yes.”  
He glances down at his knees, half expecting to not see them there, or not see a floor. Too dark to see well. What is going on?

“You feel empty,” Locus says. “You don’t know who you are. You are lost.”

It feels like— it’s almost like— screaming and drugs and blue and blue and blue and he doesn’t know— doesn’t remember— what does he remember? His name is— his name is—

“You want to feel better.”

“Yes!” he says, almost a cry. The darkness and blue and drugs and the hollowness is threatening to drag him down. He just needs— he needs an anchor, someone to drag him back.

“You want me to make you feel better.”

The words seem to come from far away. Feels himself nodding. Wants to feel better. Wants to feel normal. Doesn’t care who drags him back right now. 

“Please.” The word breaks out of him, a strangled noise, ragged. He just needs it to end. It’s engulfing him, hollowing him out until there’s nothing left.

“Good.”

One word, and the hollow feeling recedes just long enough for Wash to take a breath, before it comes crashing back, eroding more of him with it. He hears a whine and doesn’t know where it came from, but that- it’s him, isn’t it? Him making that noise.

Movement, and he latches onto it as the only real thing in the world. He can just make out Locus reaching up, removing his helmet. He fiddles with something, and then light fills the room. He blinks, half blinded even by the dim glow from the helmet flashlight which throws stark shadows across the room. 

When he can see again, he gets his first look at the mercenary. Square face and dark skin and a band of scar tissue across his face mirroring the green cross on his helmet. He’s attractive, some distant part of Wash’s mind chimes in. Wash’s type, even if he hasn’t had chance in years.

“Look at me, Agent Washington.”

He is looking. He is. But he drags his gaze upwards to meet Locus’ eyes. Locus gives a nod of approval. “Listen to what I say, and I will make you feel better. Am I understood?”

Locus’ voice chimes like a bell through the chaos in Wash’s mind, the only clear thing he has right now. He shouldn’t— Locus is not a friend. He has to remember that. Remember, remember remember that—

The hollowness is eating him alive, and he clings onto Locus’ words.

“I— I understand.”

“Good.”

Once again, the awful, gnawing emptiness fades with the word, letting him briefly break the surface to gasp for air before being dragged back down into the depths. But there’s a light there, something he can use to find himself.

Locus sets his helmet down on the room’s single chair and then approaches until he’s close enough that Wash could touch him. He’s tall, taller than Wash in armour, and now, sitting down and stripped to the undersuit, Locus towers over him. And Wash can’t look away.

Locus begins to speak, his voice low and level and steady. “Command access Tau-Seven-Nine-Three-Phi-Alpha.”

“Wh—“ The question is on his lips as Locus recites the nonsense words, a code of some kind, on the tip of his tongue.

Fire sears through his brain from the site of his implant, tendrils digging through his brain, a thousand wires pulsing and pushing data into his head. He screams.

Immediately, there’s a gauntleted hand across his mouth, stifling the noise, another holding the back of his head.   
“Stop that, Agent Washington,” Locus growls.

The noise stops immediately. Locus pulls his hand away. Wash takes a breath to scream again. Maybe Sarge or Donut will hear, but he’d take anyone at this point.

No noise comes. It’s like his throat has seized up, choking him into silence. His eyes widen, and he tries again, tries to force a noise from his throat, but nothing comes out. 

“Don’t bother,” Locus says. “It’s pointless to resist.”

A knot of panic swells inside him, driving away that peaceful sensation, clearing his head for just long enough. He lunges for Locus, aiming a shoulder strike towards his stomach. It connects, and he feels Locus gasp for breath. He doubles over.

Wash moves before Locus can recover, heading to the door. He grapples with the lock, hears Locus gasping behind him. He’s nearly there— nearly—

“Stop.”

Locus’ voice cracks through him like a whip and he stops. The same way his voice had been stolen, his body refuses to obey him, leaving him frozen, hand on the door handle. He tries to move, but only the very ends of his fingers twitch in response. What is going on?  
And along with that panic and helplessness, the hollow feeling creeps back in. Worse this time, a creeping feeling of hopelessness. He’d felt this before. Back in the hospital after Epsilon, drugged and interrogated. 

Apparently, whatever paralysis has overcome him, it doesn’t stop him from shaking.

“That was foolish.” Locus’ voice is a growl. Wash hears him move, expects to be grabbed, but it doesn’t come. “Come here, Washington.”

Wash tries to resist. He tries to plant his heels, to brace himself, but nothing works. He’s locked out of his body as it moves without his input, taking him across the room to stand in front of Locus.

He can’t move, but he can glare, and he wishes that looks could kill. Locus doesn’t seem impressed.

“I am displeased,” Locus says. “And when I am displeased, you will regret it.” 

Like Wash hasn’t heard that before, or some variant. That’s pretty much how Freelancer had worked.  
Except… except he does regret it. His stomach lurches, heart pounding mind latching onto the moment when he’d run and how could he be so stupid? How could he do that? Why had he done it? Why and why and why seared into his brain and looping over and looping over and--

“What are you doing to me?” 

“Sit down, Agent Washington, and look at me.”

His body moves and drags his mind along with it, still reeling. He drops to the bed like a stone and stares up at the mercenary.

“I have command access. Do you understand?”

He doesn— “Yes.”

“I am beginning programming.”What the hell does that mean? 

“You trust me, Agent Washington.”

“Like hell,” he snarls, because if this doesn’t prove that Locus can’t be trusted then nothing does.

“You do,” Locus repeats. “You trust me. You feel calm and relaxed around me. You know I want to help you.”

It’s bullshit. It is such bullshit and- and- his shoulders slump, the tension seeping out of them, and his fingers uncurl from the edge of the bed. Breathing calms and heart-rate slows. 

“Stop,“ he grinds out, but Locus continues.

“You feel good when you are near me. You trust me, and you want to prove yourself to me.”

No. No, he- he doesn’t feel warmth spread through him at Locus’ presence. He doesn’t feel calm and comfortable and weightless. He doesn’t- he doesn’t-

“Do you want to run, Agent Washington? Do you want to scream for your friends?”

Does he? He blinks a few times, tries to clear his head. Locus is-- Locus is a mercenary and an enem— No, he- Locus is- 

“No,” he says finally, and he isn’t sure where the word comes from. It isn’t his. It can’t be his. But it’s his voice, and really, does he want to run away? Does he want to call Sarge or Donut in here to see what’s happening? He’s safe here with Locus. He- he trusts Locus.

“Good,” Locus says, a faint curl of satisfaction on his lips, and Wash feels it again, stronger this time. A flush of warmth that runs through him, banishing the darkness, the emptiness. It’s a comforting feeling, and one that is very close to pleasure.

“I know you, Agent Washington,” Locus says, and his voice is a low drone at the back of his skull, filling him up bit by bit. “I know what you are. You’re a soldier, and a soldier obeys. You want to obey.”

It sounds so reasonable, and Wash finds himself nodding along with it, the remaining tension draining out of him, leaving him limp and relaxed. Locus’ voice feels like a massage, digging down into the core of him, making him loose and pliable.

“You want to obey me,” Locus says. “You want to obey my orders. It makes you feel good to obey me. It makes you feel complete. Repeat it.”

A shudder runs through him at the order, like hands running down his spine. “I want to obey you,” he says, the words coming out soft and slack and feeling like they belong on his tongue. “I want to obey your orders. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel complete.”

It’s like he can feel something shift inside him at the words. He feels good, fear and doubt and hurt locked away for this brief time. He hasn’t felt this good since- since- he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good. A smile crosses his lips. 

What’s happening to him? The thought comes like a flare in darkness, and he tenses up again, smile fading. But Locus is there immediately, a hand on his cheek. When had he removed his gauntlet?

“Look at me, Agent Washington.” The commend snaps his attention back to Locus, and obedience closes in on the flare of awareness, squeezing around it. “You want to obey me. Obedience is your purpose. You exist to obey me. Repeat it.”

He blinks a few times, reaching for that guttering candle. “I want to obey you,” he says, “Obedience is my purpose. I exist to obey you.”

His fingers slip away from the thought, and it’s snuffed out by the rush of contentment, of pleasure that comes in the wake of his obedience. Yes. Obedience is his purpose. Obedience shores up the ragged places inside him. Existing to serve makes him feel… complete.

“How do you feel?” Locus asks, and the sound of his voice compounds that feeling. Locus is speaking, so Wash listens. Must listen. 

“Whole,” Wash says without hesitation. “I feel good. It makes me feel good to obey you.”

“Remember this feeling,” Locus says. His hand is still on Wash’s face, fingers like points of fire. “You crave this feeling. You want it more than anything.”

“Yes,” he says, the word coming out close to a moan. Of course he wants this feeling. Why wouldn’t he?

“Obedience is the only way to feel this,” Locus continues. “Pleasing me is the only way to feel this. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Wash says, with a fervent nod. He has to obey to feel this way. He has to please Locus to feel this way. He needs this feeling, so he needs to obey Locus. It’s simple to understand now that it’s been pointed out to him. Why hadn’t he realised this before?

Locus’ hand moves backwards and fists in his hair to drag his head back. A flash of fear runs through him, but-- but he has to obey. This is what Locus wants. 

“When you don’t obey, when you aren’t serving, you feel hollow,” Locus says. “Do you feel it, Washington? Gnawing inside you. The emptiness?”

He sucks in a breath. He can feel it. A swallowing ocean of darkness lapping inside him, threatening to drag him down. It’s what he felt in prison, what he felt locked up after-- after Epsilon.

“It’s inside you, Washington,” Locus says, and he feels like he’s being stripped down and laid bare for the other man, all of his faults and crimes put on display. “It wants to devour you. It grows, and the only way to stop it is to obey.”

He feels it like sickness, stomach churning. It’s like being shattered all over again, Epsilon ripping through him, broken wires and electricity in his head. He’s losing himself, and the only thing that can stop it is-

“But I am pleased with you, Washington,” Locus says, and suddenly the warmth is there again. It soothes him, a healing salve against the coiling despair. “When you obey me, you feel better. It’s always there, but if you please me, I can make it leave you alone.”

His breath shudders as he draws it in, and he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, scalding hot with gratitude. Locus makes the darkness go away. Pushes away that gnawing awful feeling that wants to swallow him. He can’t go back to that place. It had nearly killed him once. He’d barely been able to survive, to piece himself back together. He won’t manage a second time. 

“Thank you,” he gasps, voice ragged and desperate. “Please make it go away.”

Locus pulls away, and Wash mourns the loss of his hand. “I will. As long as you obey me. As long as you strive to please me.”

“I will. I will. I want to obey you. I need to obey you.” The words come out of him in a tangle of desperation. He needs to prove that to Locus, doesn’t he? Locus needs to know so that he’ll make it stop.

Locus’ tongue flicks out over his lips as he regards Wash. “You will do anything that I tell you to do,” he says. “And you will feel good when you do it.”

Of course. Of course, he will. His sense of purpose has narrowed down to a single bright point. Locus is a lighthouse in the darkness of his mind. 

“Pick up your sidearm, Agent Washington,” Locus commands. 

He doesn’t hesitate. He stands up and goes to pick it up from the top of the locker next to his bed. It’s a familiar weight in his hands. He’d been a little surprised when the Feds had returned it.

“Open your mouth,” is the next command. Wash parts his lips and warmth fills him for a second, reward for his obedience. Locus reaches up and his thumb rests against Wash’s bottom lip, his teeth. He pushes it inside, presses it against Wash’s tongue, and then forces his mouth open further. 

He pulls away again, and Wash- Wash misses it. Regrets its absence.

“Do you like that, Washington?” Locus asks. Some of his feelings must have shown on his face. “You like me touching you.”

It isn’t a question. Wash nods. Isn’t sure if he should speak or not. Keeps his mouth wide open. 

“Yes, you do like me touching you,” Locus says. There’s heat in his voice now, something almost giddy in the way he talks. It would be terrifying if Wash didn’t trust him. “You crave my touch like you crave the feeling of obeying me.”

Wash shudders, and he feels the phantom memory of Locus’ fingers against his cheek, against his lip. He wants more of that. Heat follows Locus’ words, but it curls in his belly this time, the low heat of arousal. His mouth is still open, and he wonders what it would be like to have Locus’ cock in it, filling him and fucking his mouth till his jaw aches. 

“Put the gun in your mouth, Agent Washington,” Locus commands. His voice is deep and rough, and Wash feels his cock twitch as he obeys. The comforting warmth of obedience mingles with the deeper, darker heat of arousal.

He pushes the gun between his lips, the polymer resting against his lower teeth, and looks back at Locus for direction.

“Further,” Locus says, “and wrap your lips around it.”

Wash closes his mouth around the gun and pushes it further into his mouth until it almost touches his throat. It presses his tongue down, and there’s an ache in his wrist from the odd angle, but they’re easily ignored when he knows that he’s obeying. He’s pleasing Locus.

“Put your finger on the trigger.”

There’s a second, a second when ice fills his veins. Another thrill of fear and-- what is he doing? What is he— His finger obeys without his conscious thought, moving to rest against the trigger. He knows the gun is loaded.

“I could command you to pull the trigger right now,” Locus says. His voice drags fingernails against the back of his skull, and he knows that it’s true. Locus could give the order, and his hands would obey before he even thought about it. His body isn’t his own anymore. It shouldn’t feel comforting.

“Suck the gun like you’re sucking my cock.”

He’d moan if his mouth wasn’t full of the weapon. He sucks hard on it, wraps his tongue around it, and imagines that it’s Locus’ dick filling him. 

“That’s enough,” Locus says, and he sounds as raw as Wash feels. “Put the gun down, and then face me.”

He pulls it out of his mouth, slick with saliva that dribbles down his chin, and puts it back on the locker. Then he turns to look at Locus, the pleasure of obedience strumming through his brain.

“Do you know what’s being done to you, Washington?” he asks. He steps up towards him, until Wash can feel the warmth of his body, like the warmth of his words.

“No.” He doesn’t know. He hadn’t asked. Why hadn’t he asked? Didn’t seem important when all he wants to do is obey. He needs to obey. He needs to obey and pleasure Locus. It runs through his mind like a mantra, digging itself deeper, imprinting itself into the core of him. He needs to obey. He exists to obey.

Locus’ hand curls against the back of his neck, over the neural port. It’s a possessive gesture, and it makes Wash tremble. “When I gave you back your helmet,” Locus begins, “there was a very special modification made that was inserted using your implant. Control has been working on it for a while, and you get to be our guinea pig. Our first test subject in the wild.”

Guinea pig? The curiosity is idle where once it would have been piercing and angry. He can’t muster that emotion right now although he can feel the spot where it’s supposed to be. 

“A little virus working its way into your brain, preparing you to be programmed.” Locus’ grip tightens. “Can you feel it Washington? It’s rewriting your brain, remaking you how I want you to be. Like a computer program. A piece of equipment. How does that make you feel?”

He has to think about it. It’s hard when Locus is touching him, warming him. There’s something in his brain that is changing him. That made him susceptible to… to whatever Locus is doing to him. Programming him. If he concentrates, he thinks he can feel the shift in his thoughts. He should be angry. He should be fighting. He knows that. But it seems unimportant when what he needs to do is obey Locus. He exists to obey.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wash replies finally and is almost surprised to find that is true. It’s an irrelevant piece of information when he knows what he needs to do. He needs to obey. He exists to obey.

Locus smiles and Wash feels pleasure bloom through him. “Very good. It will continue working on you, reinforcing your programming. You are a piece of equipment, like a gun, or a knife.”Yes. Yes, that’s right. He’s just equipment. Equipment doesn’t think. It just does what it is told. It is used. 

“You are grateful for orders. You are grateful to me for programming you. You are a piece of equipment, and you want to be used.”

“Yes,” Wash breathes. “Thank you. Thank you for programming me.” How had he existed before this? How had he never realised what he was? A piece of equipment. A tool to be used. He exists to obey. A smile grows on his lips at the realisation. 

“Good. Lock this programming in. Command access Tau-Seven-Nine-Three-Phi-Alpha.”

“Programming locked,” Wash’s mouth says. 

Locus nods approvingly. “You will go to bed Washington, and you will sleep and let the programming do its work. When you wake up tomorrow, you won’t consciously remember this. You will act as you normally do. But you will still crave my orders and need to obey me. Am I understood?”

“I understand,” Wash says. 

“You are a piece of equipment, and you want to be used,” Locus says firmly. “Repeat it.”

“I am a piece of equipment, and I want to be used.” It feels so right. It slots into his soul like a missing piece. Nothing else matters. 

“Go to sleep, Agent Washington.”

Locus picks up his helmet and puts it back on. There’s a flicker in the air, and then he vanishes. A moment later, the light turns off, and Wash is left in blackness. He lies down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His cock is hard, and the memory of pleasure thrums through him. Locus had ordered him to sleep so he closes his eyes and falls asleep, that mantra running through his head.

He is a piece of equipment, and he needs to be used.

—————

“Locus, what is your report?”

Control’s generated voice greets him when he enters the little encampment a couple of miles from the Federal base. It’s the only place to get a signal right now, they’ve seen to that. 

“Agent Washington is no longer a threat,” he says. “The programming went as anticipated, although I would like to see how he acts over the next few days.”

“Excellent,” Control says. “Once you have given your report, we will begin larger trials using the alien towers.”

“Of course. We will be ready,” Locus says.

“Good. I am pleased with your performance.”

Locus sucks in a breath, and feels the flush of pleasure and contentment run through him at Control’s words. He exists to obey.


End file.
